


when the wolf comes home

by CloudDreamer



Series: through the looking glass [2]
Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Abuser POV, Cult Leader Sandoval Crossing, Cults, Heavensmaw Moonrays (Blaseball Team), Implied/Referenced Abuse, Past Torture, Swearing, shock collar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:15:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29181642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudDreamer/pseuds/CloudDreamer
Summary: Nagomi Nava promised she would destroy Heavensmaw in a hundred years time. One hundred years have passed, and she's caching in on that.Recommended Listening: Up the Wolves by The Mountain Goats
Relationships: Sandoval Crossing & Lars Taylor, Sandoval Crossing & Nagomi Nava
Series: through the looking glass [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2144031
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	when the wolf comes home

**Author's Note:**

> the lars and sandoval in this are from the dark mirror universe, including the dark seattle corporates and heavensmaw moonrays. for those not familiar, the moonrays are arrogant and wish to become gods. as part of this plan, they kidnap a celestial -- lars taylor -- and convince him that he was banished for some unspeakable crime. nagomi nava's passenger is a fallen angel hell bent on destroying both the true heaven and this facsimile.

Betrayal. Shock. 

Sandoval feels the blade land, sudden and brutal. There’s a sharp explosion of pain in his back, and pale white blood refuses to trickle down. He doesn’t scream as it goes in, just sucks in a breath and turns his head to try to see Nagomi, but he does scream as she twists it., shoving it further in before she pulls it out, taking chunks of sticky white silver blood with it. The knife is obsidian, and he can’t help but stare at it. The eerie faded yellow light that covers the sky reflects off the stone and his insulated blood at such a fascinating angle. It’s everything Heavensmaw is supposed to be. He gave it to her, all those decades ago, on the anniversary of his paradise’s founding. She’d smiled and told him she’d kill him with it one day. He’d laughed and said they’d cross that bridge when they came to it. 

They’re at the highest point in the city. He’d retreated here, leaving the rest of his team behind, so he could have one final view of his masterpiece. He can see it all from here. The clouds are far bellow them now, as they soar above the world, and the gateway to the other world is only feet above him. He is in its shadow, as he always has been, but he could reach up for it at any moment. The ground they travel over now is almost close to Seattle, which means the slain sun shines its sickening dim light, long dried blood staining the indigo arrow that pins it in place. An eyesore, he thinks, something he is above. 

He is above it all as he coughs, reaching back to put his hand over the wound with the barely coherent idea to staunch the bleeding. Nagomi doesn’t attack again, just lets him try desperately to find his feet as she watches. She looks over what was once so perfect, now fallen in disarray. Only hours ago, this place was beautiful and his. 

Each building that reached upwards in soaring height, made of marble and gold and so many subtle materials intertwined like threads on a tapestry, was a stroke in the beautiful painting that only the most perfect, most deserving audiences could appreciate. Not everyone could see the symmetry of his designs, the majesty of those delicate waterfalls reaching across hundreds of feet, the expertise of the machinery fed by the sacrifice only he knew how to make, and the perfection of the placement of those statues immortalizing those that died with honor. It was his magnum opus. It was everything he’d dreamed of.

And it was burning. This was what had been promised. This was the bargain they’d entered into willingly. It was burning with fire that sucked in any light, fire that didn’t need wood to burn. This was the fire of down bellow, ignited by discontent and hurt. There’s people down there, screaming when he’d never seen them raise their voice before. They’d all smiled along and pushed him higher. Now they turn on him, joining the mob that wants to tear everything beautiful and good apart. Their fervor that had once been passion is now zealotry for a new cause. They’d worshipped him once. They had wanted this, and now they threw it all away, and for what? 

And for what? He’s still standing, bloodied back leaned against the railing on the top of his tower, watching the smoke reach higher and higher. He sees machines that took years to build torn open, hands reaching in and coming out with handfuls of gears dropped on the ground, and the disrespect hurts worse than the knife Nagomi shoved between his ribs. And he sees her, sees her in her entirety.

Sandoval knows this is the end. He _knew_ — they’d all known— that this was coming. That didn’t mean that, somewhere between all the late nights spent working together, all the threats followed by laughter, he’d started to think maybe she’d changed her mind. Maybe he’d proven himself to her and her passenger. He’d started to think he’d deciphered it. He’d been arrogant enough to believe he could understand the fallen angel, just because he can control Lars. 

_No,_ he tries to assure himself. _I can still control this._

The wound is deep, and he’s sure it’s pierced something vital. Even if it hadn’t gone so deep, he knows where the knife is from. He gave it to her, after all, and he wouldn’t give his team anything but the best of the best. It’s not just his blood that’s running out, not just his flesh that was sliced through. It’s cutting at something deeper. His spirit, his soul, his life force— whatever it is, it’s being eaten away. 

Nagomi Nava’s perfect white hair flies loose whipping back in the strong wind, the wings of her passenger concealing her right eye. This is the first time he’s seen her hair down since— he can’t remember. Ever, maybe. Smoke rises from behind those wings and cracks are spread across her skin, golden like veins in marble. Her sandals press against the floor, and she wears her pale pastel blue, almost white, suit jacket unbuttoned over a black tank top. It’s marred with blood, both red and silver, and her smile is careless. Uncontrolled. She is a betrayal of everything Heavensmaw is supposed to represent, and if this was any other day, he’d have her disciplined for marring their image. All of this. 

It’s making them look bad. He doesn’t want to think about what the papers will say, how the Corporates will brag, but he can’t help it. He can still control this, he tries to convince himself, and he tries to reach for something, anything, to bring Nagomi to heel. He has information on everyone and everything in this city. He knows his monument inside and out. He’s got to find something— this was part of the deal, but it’s not _fair._

“It’s perfectly fair,” she says cheerfully, looking at him like he’s something she stepped in. She’s always been his most precise weapon. Bickle is the sharpest, of course, and his husbands were the ones with the most reach, but Nagomi is specific. She gets the job done. She knows how to break things. Break him. “I told you that you would die unloved with everything you’d worked to build in shambles. Your legacy will only be the hurt you caused.” 

“In the name of perfection,” he snarls, with as much energy as he still has. He coughs again, barely managing to keep this semblance of standing going. 

“In the name of power,” she corrects, and she’s unaffected by a voice anyone else would melt beneath. A tenth of that bile would have the others on their knees, silently accepting whatever punishment he decided they deserved, and what he decided _was_ what they’d deserve, but she’s still standing. She’s unfazed. “This was an ugly mess from the start. It’s been cute watching you play god, don’t get me wrong. You’ve been an incredibly useful pawn, but you’re not useful anymore.”

“You don’t get to speak to me like that,” he says, trying to use the railing to pull himself up. 

“Really?” She plays with the knife he _gave_ her, twisting it up and down. Her nails are chipped, and it’s wrong. She’s as out of place as a commoner. He coughs as he tries to push himself forward. “Don’t I?” 

The wings shot back, revealing her passenger in full. What was once Nagomi’s eye stares into him, rotten and raw. That’s where those gold lines originate from, but there’s nothing precious about the melting mess. It stares into him with the gaze that Sandoval’s enemies know all too well. This is the first time she’s dared train it on him, and he can’t even think enough to swear she’ll be made to pay for it. He’s dizzy— he can’t see anything except for the scope of eternity. It’s the stars above, living and bleeding and dying. 

It’s the hells bellow, reaching up and consuming a desert. It’s another world, where his head is on her shoulder and they’re laughing and he’s so unspeakably pathetic. He’s one of a team, and he’s proud of the team for _failing_. It’s his place in the universe and how small it is. It’s how nobody will care that he’s dead except for — 

The door behind Nagomi slides open, silently, and Lars Taylor steps out. He stands so small, as small as he’s ever been, the stumps on his back where his newly regrown wings were only days ago still raw. A couple of those wounds have bled through the bandages. He’s shaking like a leaf, a habit Sandoval has long since trained out of him, but everyone’s disappointing him today. He takes a breath, looks from Sandoval, who’s completely collapsed at some point while the passenger was trained on him, to Nagomi, who’s still focused on Sandoval, and hits her, letting out a sound that’s barely recognizable as Lars. 

The punch is pathetic. It’s not that Lars has never been in a fight in his entire life — he’s been in _many_ , courtesy of the other teams in the league — but those fights have never been remotely fair. Lars has been trained to do everything except for fight. He knows how to run from what he’s allowed to run from, he knows how to shut up and take it, and he knows how to fawn. He’s in an expert in knowing how to survive, not to win. He knows to keep his thumb on the outside, but his wrist is at the wrong angle. It still hurts him more than it hurts Nagomi, even without the shock collar around his neck disguised as jewelry firing and driving him to his knees, right in front of the sprawled out Sandoval. 

Nagomi’s startled by it, putting one hand up to her head to touch where the glancing blow landed, before turning to see the collapsed Lars. 

“What are _you_ doing here?” She asks, genuinely surprised and with more than a bit of judgment. “Please— please don’t hurt him,” Lars stutters out, his words uneven and desperate. Sandoval can’t help but be disappointed at the “please.” So many people today are falling into bad habits. He’d shake his head, if he could muster up the energy to. 

“Really?” She’s incredulous now. “Him? You’re doing this for him?” 

Lars nods, arms down, putting his head forward in surrender. The wings he still has and the larger stumps move back, vulnerable. Not too long ago, Sandoval was standing above him. 

“You know he doesn’t deserve it, right? You’ve been fucked over the most by all this, _by_ him. You should be grateful, if anything.” 

“I deserved all of it,” he says, smaller voice. So much smaller than when he was trying to protect Sandoval. It’s a perfect voice, pitched in all the right ways for this place, but he still manages to make it weak. 

“No, you didn’t.” “Don’t—“ Sandoval forces out, trying to get up again. At least to his knees. Blood comes with his words. 

“Why not?” She laughs. “Lars Taylor, you didn’t do _shit._ ”

“What?” Lars asks, eyes wide. “What do you mean?” 

“Why don’t you tell him?” Nagomi gestures at Sandoval dismissively. “This is sweet and all, but we’ve got more important things to do than watch a half assed cult leader bleed out.” 

She leans over, pats Lars’s head like she’s done a thousand times before, and he doesn’t flinch at that. Better, than some of what he’s been showing today, but he still shuts his eye and clenches his teeth. So much of Sandoval’s hard work, undone. There are imperfections all over the place, everything is being pulled back. Sandoval crawls forward, towards them, but Nagomi’s already reaching up, towards the gate, and then she’s gone. 

She’s gone, and Lars is reaching for him with nothing but love in his eye. He adjusts his position, even as he’s still clearly hurting from the collar going off sharper than it ever has before, making a space for Sandoval’s head in his lap, and something in him breaks seeing that. Something angry rises up. 

“You’re an idiot,” he snarls, and Lars can’t keep his shoulders from rising up in fear. “You know that, right? She wasn’t lying— you didn’t do anything wrong. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and we used you.” Lars just shrugs, pats his lap. Makes it clear that the offer is still open, despite what he’s saying, and that just makes Sandoval even angrier. He’s slipping too— he’s failing. He’s falling to pieces. 

“Do you think you’re better than me? Is that what this is? Do you think I’m weak?” 

Lars shakes his head quickly. 

“Then why?” Lars just… shrugs. No words now. He only speaks when he’s scared, and he’s not scared now. Sandoval’s rage vanishes. An imperfection cleaned away, at the very least, even if it means accepting this weakness. He collapses into Lars’s offered comfort. If he thinks that Sandoval is weak now, then… maybe he’d be right. Coldness is reaching for him, the same coldness he’d used to punish Lars all those times before. The remaining wings reach out, a protective halo made less impressive by how many holes there are. Still. They’re beautiful. 

The destruction of the city must be hurting him, Sandoval realizes. It’s his old wings that power this place, after all, and those are still tied to him. He used to pass out when Sandoval as much as toyed with the extras. He’s as much of a masterpiece as the city is. How can he still have love, after everything that’s happened to him? After everything Sandoval did to him. He hasn’t earned this mercy. 

“Why?” he repeats, plaintive. It’s childish this time, and he’s sure the wind swallows his words. It’s whistling so sharp up here, pushing the smoke this way and that, even if he can’t feel it on his skin anymore. “Why are you so good?” 

Lars shakes his head as he reaches down. Sandoval flinches, but Lars only pushes his long hair out of his face, back behind his ears. Like Rhys used to do. Does Lars know what that means to him? Or is it just a random act of kindness? Why doesn’t he get that Sandoval doesn’t deserve it? He’s not good, he’s not kind. All he’s ever had is his drive, and what was the point of all that anyway, if he couldn’t make anything to last. 

He can’t feel the touch. He can barely still see Lars. He wants to say something else. He needs to pull everything together. If this isn’t worth something, then what? He tries to make a sound, but nothing comes out, and Lars


End file.
